


Everybody Needs a Doctor

by Miss_L



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/pseuds/Miss_L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What can I say... A cocky John and an embarrassed Sherlock - the rest speaks for itself. Schmex! Sort of ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Needs a Doctor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyLestrade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLestrade/gifts).



> ''t Was a prompt!' she shouted, knowing full well it was no excuse...  
> Too late for regrets now xD Read at your own risk!

John was exasperated. As always, nowadays. However, this time, it wasn’t something Sherlock had said or done. Rather, the things he didn’t say. Which was pretty much anything. The man was obviously sulking for some reason, except he wouldn’t say what was wrong. Which was not the worst part – when was that ever? – but Mrs Hudson had thrown a very angry fit about the broken lamps and her favourite painting. The painting was one in her own apartment, which fell down when Sherlock shot a hole in the floor (how he found the gun, was anyone’s guess). No matter how much she loved Sherlock, and had taken to John, she was still a landlady and furniture was still off limits. John had apologised and promised to keep Sherlock from breaking more. He closed the door to the landing and glared at the genius-turned-sulking five-year-old. The man on the couch didn’t pay him any attention, reading Dostojevski with a visible thunder-cloud above his head.

‘That’s it, Sherlock. This has been going on for two weeks now, and we’ve had two good cases in the meantime! Either you tell me what’s wrong already, or so help me, I will actually hurt you.’

Green eyes met blue and Holmes smirked. ‘Well, that would be tremend…’

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Something inside John’s head snapped, and he strode over to the couch purposefully and sat down on Sherlock’s stomach. The detective was so taken aback, he didn’t even try to push him away, or scold him, or punch him for such impertinence. He just stared.

‘You were saying?’ John was still boiling a bit, but the utter astonishment on the other man’s face was extremely rewarding. Finally, Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in discontent and buckled his hips, throwing John in the air slightly. Once the doctor was off-balance, he pushed him away and put his feet on the ground. They were sitting next to each other now, Sherlock looking moodily at his hands, intertwined on his knees, as John was studying his profile and trying to gauge whether he would finally start talking or turn to murder at last. Starting with him, obviously.

Sherlock finally relaxed his shoulders, sat back on the couch a crossed his arms. ‘If you can deduce what’s wrong, I don’t have to tell you, John.’

‘Sherlock! How many times…’ He stopped. There was something in his friend’s eyes… Something broken. This was not meant to be another insult to his intelligence. At least, he didn’t think so. 

John sighed again for good measure and sat back as well, half-turning to face his flatmate. ‘Fine. So, you started sulking… about… no, exactly two weeks ago, on a Friday. I remember because you threw the toaster down the stairs.’ Sherlock smirked slightly, but said nothing.

‘It was the day Mycroft had come round with a case – which you obviously refused to take, sending me after it two days later – and you two had another banter. With lots of accusations about the past and Mummy again. Amongst other things.’ John cringed at the memory. It was truly a horrible exchange. But he noticed that Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched at the mention, and frowned.

‘It’s not the fight with Mycroft, is it? You two call each other names all the time!’ Sherlock jerked his head sideways, but still said nothing.

‘So it _was_ the fight. Right. But there’s something else, isn’t there?’ Another jerky head-movement, this time a nod. John felt his brains creak as he tried to remember what else had happened. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, no doubt annoyed by John’s loud thinking.

‘Oh!’ It hit him. ‘Anderson shouted at you and your mood got even worse after that.’ The lamps were commemorated in silence. ‘Is there a connection between the two?’ Sherlock shrugged seemingly nonchalant. 

“It doesn’t matter, John.’ The detective seemed ill at ease and sorry to have started the conversation. This wasn’t like him. Sure, he was always secretive about his past, but once he started a conversation, he usually finished it – with or without John around. Sherlock stood and went into the kitchen, but John wouldn’t let go that easily. He really was getting tired of half-truths and manipulation, he would get to the bottom of this, damn it! He sat there, pondering for another fifteen minutes, sipping tea Sherlock had made him – something he never did, probably an apology for having been a git then… There was only one subject that had featured on both offensive conversation, and it was Sherlock’s sex life. Or, rather, lack of it. Mycroft had very angrily shouted at his brother that the least he could’ve done for Mummy was settle down with a nice _girl_. Sherlock had shut up and glared at him until he left after that.

Anderson, on the other hand, had had enough of Sherlock’s not-so-subtle references to his and Donovan’s relationship and had shouted that maybe the “freak” had to get a sex life of his own and stop prodding in others’. The forensic had then looked at John meaningfully, only making the doctor shrug. He was really used to the innuendos now… However, coupled with Mycroft’s emphasis on the word “girl”… Maybe Sherlock minded the assumption that he was gay, after all. Despite his protests, he couldn’t care less, however, his friend never said anything… And in a way, John had also tried to protect Sherlock’s reputation, it was bad enough to be the oddball.

Sherlock was watching John ponder from his chair, indeed sorry he’d even started the conversation at all. John was about to speak. Damn.

‘Sherlock…’ This had to happen subtly, he felt. ‘Look, I don’t mind what people say, really. And you shouldn’t let it get to you, you know?’ Sherlock’s sharp gaze tried to pierce John’s skull.

‘What shouldn’t I let get to me?’ His insides felt cold. Oh God, this was too close to home.

John frowned, then shuffled forward until he sat on the edge of the couch and smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter that people think you’re – or we’re – gay, right? I mean, we know it’s not true and…’ Sherlock’s impatient huff cut him short.

‘I don’t care what people think about anything! And I couldn’t care less if they think I’m gay.’ He got up and started walking up and down the room, nightgown billowing dramatically – how else? – behind him. He stopped and looked at John again, anger in his eyes now. ‘I don’t care what _anybody_ thinks, okay?’ John stared him down unfazed. They both knew this was a load of crap, it didn’t have to be said. However, he believed that he had missed the real issue. The doctor relaxed his shoulders and stood.

‘Look, Sherlock, you wanted me to deduce. It’s too late to pull out now. Can you just tell me?’ The angry man in front of him turned in a petulant five-year-old again in a matter of seconds, whirled around and strode off towards his bedroom. John sighed. Great. Mrs Hudson was really going to kill him if this went on.

\---

The doctor stood there for a bit, pondering what to do now. He could leave Sherlock alone, but for once, the man had opened up a little – with actual words instead of letting him get subtle hints he always missed – and this felt like unfinished business. When his psychosomatic leg started to itch – never a good sign – he gave in and went to Sherlock’s room. Even though he knew the door would be unlocked, he still knocked. A ‘hmpf!’ his only answer, he went inside, and sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock lay with his back towards the world and scooted a little bit further away when he felt John’s weight land behind him. John cleared his throat, earning him an exasperated sigh from his flatmate – who knew one person could be so annoyed at lack of subtlety? 

‘Sherlock. Look, you wanted me to find out what’s wrong, or you wouldn’t have asked so in the first place.’ It wasn’t easy keeping his voice light and level, but he was quite used to the tantrums by now. Sherlock shrugged. ‘’Kay, well… it’s not the gay-thing. At least, not entirely?’ No answer. Well, better than being shouted out of the room, anyway. ‘But it’s something to do with the jabs at your sexuality, then?’ Again, nothing but quiet. Yet, John fancied there was a slight movement in his friend’s shoulders that suggested him drawing his arms around his torso. Protectively. The right ballpark, at any rate. Now he just said the first thing that came to mind. ‘Is it the innuendos at your… inexperience in the field?’ John put as much neutral softness in his voice as he could muster without dissolving in syrup, but the drama-burrito’s frame stiffened entirely. Ah. ‘In combination with homosexuality?’

‘Bi.’

‘I’m sorry?’ The mumble was so soft, John had to lean forward to hear.

Sherlock turned towards him with a calm expression on his face, repeating conversationally: ‘I’m bisexual.’ He shrugged. ‘At least, I think so. I’ve never…’ His face contracted involuntarily and he turned away again. ‘I wouldn’t care about gender if I was interested enough to try.’

John smiled at his own “cleverness”, but was careful enough to keep the humour out of his voice. ‘But you’ve never met anyone worth your while?’

Sherlock shrugged again – at this rate, he would have himself some serious RSI to nag about in a week – and mumbled something again. John decided not to repeat the question. Instead, he placed a careful hand on his friend’s side and pulled lightly. Sherlock gave in and flopped on his back.

‘What?’ His eyes, ever piercing, were positively burning now. 

John shrugged in turn. ‘Why are you so offended at those silly remarks then, if you don’t care about sex?’ There was a shadow of something in the detective’s eyes… A fleeting sorrow, maybe? First time John saw it, was when that banker-chap, what’s his name? Ah yes, Sebastian. When Sebastian was talking about their college days. Right, of course. What woman (or man) would want to sleep with a freak who deduced everything about everyone in a matter of seconds and couldn’t keep his mouth shut about it? And if otherwise only women like Molly or Irene fell for him, or crazed psychopaths – yes, it all made quite a lot of sense now. 

‘I’m not!’ Sherlock tried to back out now, but he saw understanding in John’s eyes and cursed himself inwardly. Damn his need of an audience! Personal crap should stay personal, he’d learned that ages ago from Mycroft – not that it was easy to keep _anything_ personal with _that_ as a big brother. John’s hand still rested on his side – smart precaution, Sherlock had to give him that! – and prevented him from rolling away. He put on a bored face instead.

‘What do you want, John? You know what’s “wrong” now…’

A sneaky thought made its way into John’s mind and he thought he saw a sliver of interest in his companion’s eyes as he answered: ‘I want to help.’ For all the times he had to do things that made him uncomfortable, he would have his revenge. Nothing intrusive, obviously, but he was “three continents Watson” , damn it, and this cock-blocking idiot would know it! And, well… if Sherlock threw him out of the house, he would at least have tasted those beautiful lips he’s been leering at forever… It wasn’t a conscious thought process at all, but John found himself leaning forward, surprise in his friend’s eyes turning into comprehension. He was still too stunned to fight, though, and so it was that hot lips met cold ones in a lingering kiss.

Sherlock stayed still and rigid, though, and John pulled away again, trying to estimate whether the interest had been mutual, but unanswered due to inexperience, or… Cold dread made its way into his stomach when he realised what he had just risked. Oh, God, he didn’t mean to… But Sherlock’s confused frown didn’t seem very hostile. In fact, he licked his – oh so gorgeous! – lips slowly, tasting John on them. He seemed to like what he savoured, for his elegant hands grabbed the back of the doctor’s head needily and pulled him near. His wicked smile was the last thing John saw before he was engulfed in the taste of coffee and nicotine – that bastard had been smoking again! – and oh God, that sweet, hot tongue was roaming his mouth and he was under threat of forgetting his own name right now as a pool of sensations exploded in his head – and crotch (God, he hadn’t had some in quite a while! Damn meddling Sherlock).

More thanks to Sherlock’s dance-like guiding techniques than his own dexterity, John found himself on top of the other man, mouths wresting with passion, Sherlock’s swan-like neck straining to keep in time with him as their crotches were rubbing together in an intricate rhythm of “fuck me right now, I’ve wanted you for years”. Although the good doctor always identified as a heterosexual – aside from the occasional “experiment” in his youth – he couldn’t care less that he was now riding a man. Not just any man, mind, his best (and, really, by now – the only) friend and colleague. But as long as Sherlock was happy – nothing suggested otherwise – he couldn’t care less.

All he cared about right now was that his jeans were extremely constricting, especially with Sherlock’s hand snaking itself into his pants and roaming his arse like there was no tomorrow. He kissed a trail down the taller man’s neck, trying to calm himself, but eliciting noises that were downright obscene – and making his own arousal just that much worse. Sherlock was writhing beneath him with closed eyes, hands pulling, touching, trying out, never stopping until they had memorised every inch of John, his John. Well, _almost_ every inch. John rid his flatmate of his nightgown and shirt in a few movements – there’s a useful skill for you! – and started kissing down his chest and subtly muscled stomach. The noises he got then! Especially when he licked under Sherlock’s sensitive bellybutton and cupped his – “considerable” didn’t quite cover it _(What a waste!)_ – erection through the thin fabric of his bottoms. 

Sherlock seemed to lose himself in the sensory overload entirely, and John was starting to see some stars himself, when the long elegant fingers halted his hand. John tried to shake the fog off his mind.

‘What’s wrong? Did I do something..?’ There was slight alarm in his friend’s eyes, but he shook his head. 

‘Just… one moment,’ the detective panted, trying to regain control and level his breathing. John complied – he was nothing if not an attentive lover, and he was definitely not going to ruin someone’s first time by being too forward. Well, _more_ forward anyway. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, there was focus in his gaze again, and he let go of John’s hand. When his companion still didn’t move, he pulled John impatiently towards him at the nape of his neck, ushering him to go on. Gingerly, both men regained their previous rhythm as their moans got lost in each other’s mouths once again. John didn’t remember when it happened, but all of a sudden, he was very shirtless and quite open-flied, Sherlock’s hand roaming the last inches of unexplored flesh with gasps of pleasure – it was not entirely clear whose they were.

John flipped them both over on the bed, giving his hands easier access to Sherlock’s arse, not to mention that it was the lazy sod’s time to do some work! He kneaded those perfect buns with a vengeance, enjoying the chaotic thrusting and complete loss of control above him. Fuck! At this rate, he wouldn’t last much longer! The taller man nibbled at his neck, then bit him tentatively, pulling an exceptionally loud moan from John’s throat. Sherlock seemed to have been undone entirely by the sound, because his thrusts against John’s hip sped up and then he stopped, arching his back, mouth slack and eyes shut tightly. John looked at him with admiration, feeling the dampness of the other man’s come seep through the pyjama-bottoms and onto his own belly. It had been glorious!

Sherlock’s arms gave in and he sunk onto John’s chest, breathing heavily, wet patch growing as aftershocks of his orgasm shook his body. His friend flipped him on his back softly, enjoying the intimacy and kissing the – no doubt over-sensitive by now – neck lightly. The panting mess in his arms seemed to gather his wits again, because the limp body grew entirely rigid and Sherlock’s icy eyes flew open in horror. He looked at John with growing confusion and a blush on his cheeks. Then he pushed the shorter man away hard.

John caught on later than usually. ‘What’s wrong, Sherlock?’ He tried to cuddle the man again, but his friend had flipped over and sat on the other edge of the bed now, head cast down and a tautness in his shoulders that didn’t predict a continuation of the evening quite as lovely as the beginning. John put a hand on his shoulder, but Sherlock shook it off.

‘What did I do?’ No answer, just… nothing. John was confused, and his erection was dying a very quick death now. What...? He closed his fly and put on his shirt, and scooted over to Sherlock to plant a soft kiss on the man’s other shoulder. Then he snaked his arm around his flatmate’s waist and caressed his thigh lovingly. Sherlock grabbed his hand, fast as a snake’s bite and no less painful. 

‘Is that it?’ He couldn’t believe Sherlock would be shy about coming in his pants, surely. After all, that was the point… However, he didn’t want to leave the man uncomfortable. ‘Look, Sherlock, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. I don’t…’ Sherlock turned his head and treated him to a hostile look, tears of anger and embarrassment fighting their way out. He rose jerkily and just stood there, facing the wall. ‘Sherlock?’ Great. It seemed like, somehow, he had made everything worse.

_Way to go, Watson, _he thought as he got his clothes off the floor and left with a last glance at the statue-like figure in the middle of the room. When he closed the door, he heard the distinct “thud” of one Sherlock Holmes flinging himself on the bed. _Time for a cold shower, then,_ John thought sadly as he made his way into his own bedroom.__

__***_ _

__Next day, Sherlock was aloof and uncommunicative. All John’s attempts to reassure him were met with equal hostility and the doctor was expecting to be thrown out of 221B any moment now._ _

__***_ _

__After a week, the tension had risen to extreme heights and even Mrs Hudson, who’d only been upstairs one, noticed that something was horribly wrong. However, her attempts at conversation were just as unsuccessful as John’s, and she left again – but not before getting an extensive deduction of her love-life, previous sex-life and horrible teeth when she was young. This earned Sherlock a half-hour long shouting match – or, rather, monologue – from John. Seeing how he didn’t react a bit, John then went downstairs to comfort the poor woman and have some tea with biscuits. It was difficult to keep the reason of Sherlock’s snarkiness from her, but he couldn’t very well tell her what had happened. There was her heart to think of, his own reputation as “not gay”… Not to mention that Sherlock would actually murder him horribly if John told anyone about his… “accident”. Not that he wanted to: even though he didn’t consider premature ejaculation a problem (if it was even that, really!), he didn’t want to embarrass his sensitive friend further._ _

__***_ _

__When Lestrade came in the following morning to announce a murder, he wasn’t entirely sure whether it was his imagination or the temperature inside the flat had indeed dropped below freezing point. His suspicions were quickly confirmed when Sherlock looked at him from the kitchen indifferently and said: ‘Not interested” before going back to some experiment – one that stank up the whole building. Even when the D.I. had explained – rather loudly – the intricacies of the case to John, the consulting detective kept ignoring him. Lestrade threw John a “what the hell’s wrong with him?’-glance and got one of “pffft, being an idiot, I s’ppose” back. Having declined the offer of tea or “something stronger”, the police officer fled the malodorous place._ _

__***_ _

__John went back to work next day. When he came back in the evening, Sherlock was out. Having sat up for two hours, waiting anxiously for his flatmate, the doctor finally went to bed, lying awake and listening for a sign of Sherlock’s return. He woke up from the sound of some things in the living room being toppled over with a terrible crash, a bit of giggling and a “flop” – probably someone falling on the couch. Brilliant. The greatest and only consulting detective was smashed off his face – but at least he was safely home._ _

__\---_ _

__Sherlock was still sleeping when John got up next morning. He left a large glass of water and a couple of aspirins, along with some digestives, on the coffee table before leaving for work again. Half-way through his visiting hours, John heard some commotion in the corridor. Before he could check out what was going on, a young nurse with big anxious eyes came in, telling him he had an emergency. Dr Dumble would take over the rest of his patients for the afternoon, if he could _please_ see to this one. He nodded, not quite sure what was going on, and a tall man, bent almost doubly, was shown in. The second the door was hastily shut, the patient unfolded himself into – indeed – Dr Watson’s trusted friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes, not a sign of distress or pain on his face. Overcoming the primary scare – he did expect a serious case of _something_ – John looked absolutely unimpressed at his flatmate and crossed his arms in front of him, leaning on the desk. Sherlock watched him watching him, but not a word left his lips._ _

__John relaxed from his power-stance and sighed. He sat in his chair and said: ‘Well?’ Sherlock’s questioning glance was his only answer as the tall man folded himself into the chair across from him. ’Sherlock…’ John sighed again. ‘Look, I’ve got no time for games. As much as I know you despise my job, sometimes, I actually get to really help and if you’re here to…’ He didn’t get to finish his speech. Obviously._ _

__Sherlock stood up again and sat on the desk in front of his face, still watching his friend over with the same interest, as if he’d only seen him for the first time now. ‘Why?’ He spat the question impatiently, but there was an undertone of insecurity – and possibly some dehydration-headache. The stubborn sod! – in his demeanour._ _

__‘Why what?’ Sherlock huffed. Of course he wasn’t catching up soon enough._ _

__‘Why do you… care?’ Ah. The water and aspirin, then. John frowned, then smiled fondly. That idiot!_ _

__‘Because I do. Because you were obviously drunk and would have a hang-over.’ He shrugged. Really, at his age, not understanding the simple things…_ _

__‘No!’ Impatient bristling again. Luckily, John had learned to recognise this as Sherlock’s impatience at himself, for not being able to express his thoughts properly. The doctor waited for an explanation. ‘I mean…’ Sherlock began hesitatingly, ‘Are you not… disgusted?’_ _

__John hadn’t been entirely sure if his eyebrows could rise any higher. Well, that was that dilemma solved. He was rather sure his hairline had just swallowed them whole. ‘Why would I be disgusted, Sherlock?’ He put a hand on the table near his friend’s thigh. Sherlock looked at it suspiciously._ _

__‘Because I…’ He blushed again, not able to get over his embarrassment. ‘Because Friday,’ he finished weakly._ _

__‘So?’_ _

__‘Well, I… we… and then…’_ _

__John decided to help the otherwise eloquent man out of his sputtering misery and stood up. Cupping Sherlock’s jaw and making the lobster-coloured face turn towards him, he smiled kindly and planted a gentle kiss on those lush lips. ‘I don’t mind, I told you. You need to learn to listen to others, you brilliant idiot.’ Sherlock smirked, then let out a relieved sigh and reciprocated the kiss. He pulled back with a concerned frown again. John waited._ _

__‘John, I… I’m sorry.’ He was struggling with emotions again, scrunching his lower lip up worryingly. The doctor shushed him and pulled him closer, positioning himself between Sherlock’s legs and embracing the man’s lithe waist. It was with a satisfied groan that he felt his flatmate’s legs nudge his hips and the heels of his – no doubt fuck-ass expensive Italian – shoes dig into his arse. Oh, that would leave marks on his coat! Well, not that he gave a fuck now Sherlock was – once again – panting into his shoulder, almost falling off the desk in his search for more, _there, oh, oh God yes!__ _

__‘Sherlock,’ John moaned softly in his ear, ‘You have to be quiet, my colleagues and patients are outside and the door isn’t closed!’ He tried to untangle his limbs to go over and lock his office, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him leave his embrace._ _

__‘I’ll… explain.’_ _

__‘Really?’ John cocked a sceptical eyebrow at his undone friend. ‘How can you explain _this?’_ _ _

__Sherlock grinned at him wickedly. ‘Well, I managed to clear your busy schedule just for me, didn’t I?’ Before John could scold him about that, he captured his friend’s lips with his, drowning out any protest._ _

__After a while, John broke free and looked sternly at his “patient”. Sherlock put on an innocent expression, but his reserve faltered a little under the stare. Frowning a bit, the shorter man looked at him from under his eyebrows. ‘So, Mister Holmes, where does it hurt?’_ _

__The intruder smiled coyly, cast his eyes down and retorted: ‘Mostly down _there.’__ _

__John groped his erection with a mock-earnest expression. ‘Yes, that does look serious.’_ _

__Sherlock’s eyes seemed to grow larger as he leant over towards his friend and whispered seductively: ‘I believe I need a doctor…’_ _


End file.
